


A Word That Means Sorrow

by DustInTheWind



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Cato is not a pedophile in this story, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 16:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5632969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustInTheWind/pseuds/DustInTheWind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cato knows that even though he and Rue are Victors, they didn't win the games. One-shot.</p><p>And no, this is not a story about an inappropriate romance. Cato is many things, but he is not a pedophile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Word That Means Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: I don't wanna give anything away, so I won't go into detail, but you should know that this is just an all around dark story. Turn back now if you're not prepared.
> 
> I do want to make it clear that this is not a story about a 16 year old boy lusting after a 12 year old girl. 
> 
> Credit where credit is due: I don't own THG or the characters. I used a couple of direct quotes from the book when it comes to describing Rue, such as her habit of standing like a bird. I also used a quote from Mean Girls and a quote from Fight Club.
> 
> Want to add even more darkness to this story? Play "Exit Music (For a Film)" by Radiohead while you read it. That's what inspired me to write this in the first place.

It is 74 ADD.

Twenty-two tributes win the games.

The sixteen year old boy from 2 loses. So does the twelve year old girl from 11.

Neither of them understand this in the beginning.

He realizes it first.

After Claudius Templesmith pronounces them Victors, he just stands there. Waiting to feel it. The elation.

Instead he feels nothing.

Nothing.

Crickets chirp in his soul.

He frowns down at the girl who emerges from the trees and into the sunlight. He is literally more than twice her size. She barely comes up to his chest. The thickest part of her arm is smaller than his wrist. She couldn't tip the scale at seventy pounds soaking wet.

She looks up at him, big brown eyes wide with fright, and a single tear escapes and makes its way down her cheek. He doesn't understand why. He's not going to kill her, after all. He doesn't have the energy to, and even if he did, the Capitol won't let him.

It's only months later, after their Victory tour, that he realizes it's because he's still holding the sword, wet with blood, that he has just used to kill her district partner.

xxxxxxxxxx

He doesn't remember any of the post-games festivities. He doesn't remember the interview. He doesn't remember the crowning.

When he watches the footage a couple months later, he sees that during his interview he simply sits there in cold stony silence, except when they ask him a question, and then he is curt and brusque and he says exactly what they expect him to say.

He doesn't even acknowledge the existence of his little co-victor, who presses her back into the cushions as far as she can and hunches her shoulders forward and looks up at the replay above them with eyes full of tears.

They all think he is angry because she stole part of his glory.

He doesn't care enough about anything to correct their assumption.

xxxxxxxxxx

On the first night of the tour he hears her cry for the first time, through the wall that separates his room from hers.

He lays there for a while, thinking she'll stop anytime now. But she doesn't. He's annoyed.

Why doesn't Seeder get up and do something about this? Oh. That's right. She's hard of hearing.

Why doesn't Brutus get up and do something about this? Oh. That's right. He's passed out drunk.

And so the boy from 2, with a tired sigh, gets up from his bed and makes his way down the hall to Seeder's room.

He knocks on the door. And when she doesn't answer, he remembers, again, that she's hard of hearing, so he turns the knob and he walks in and he shakes the old woman awake.

"She's crying," he says.

Then he walks out to the dining car and he pours himself a glass of whiskey.

He looks out the window at the tree-covered mountains in the moonlight as the train races past them.

This is where the Girl on Fire is from, he realizes.

This is where Lover Boy is from.

 _Trash_ he thinks automatically. But there's no conviction in the thought anymore. There's no contempt. It's just a word, five letters long, that Brutus and Enobaria and Lyme and all of them back in 2 use to describe the people from 12.

 _Trash_ he repeats to himself. _Trash trash trash._ After a while it doesn't sound right. It doesn't look right in his head. Is it really a word?

Hmm.

He downs the whiskey and pours himself another glass.

On the way back to his room, he passes hers. The door is cracked and he glances inside.

Seeder is sitting on the edge of the bed, her thumbs on the little girl's face, brushing away the tears. She hands her a glass of water and the little girl props herself up on her elbow and drinks it down with a slurp at the end. Seeder takes the glass and sets it on the nightstand. She tucks a curl that has gotten in the way behind the little girl's ear. The little girl lays back down. Seeder leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead, and then she tucks her back in and takes her hand in between both of hers.

The boy from 2 returns to his room.

xxxxxxxxxx

In 12 he makes the mistake of looking at the families of Girl on Fire and Loverboy, and a black cord of pain forms in his body and stretches itself from the center of the top of his skull down to his groin. It twists and tightens. It makes his head burn, it makes his stomach clench.

The pressure begins to build up. He needs to cry to release it. Or scream. Or punch something.

But the cord is trapped in that white bubble of apathy that inflated inside of him at the end of his games. It can't get out.

He can't cry. He can't scream. He can't punch anything.

So he finds an alternative.

There's an access panel in the ceiling of his bedroom.

When he slides it aside, he sees the steel beams that reinforce the roof of the train in the event that they somehow derail and roll over.

He finds a rope in a maintenance car.

He goes to dinner.

He returns to his room at dusk, and he slides his down the wall until he reaches the floor. He sets the rope down beside him. He leans his head back and closes his eyes.

And all he sees are the faces of their families.

Girl on Fire's and Loverboy's.

He reaches for the rope, only to feel the soft carpet beneath his hand, and when he opens his eyes, it isn't there.

"If you wanted to die, why didn't you just do it in the arena and let someone else live?" The little girl's voice startles him, and he whips his head to his left to find her perched on the mantle, the rope in her hand.

"How did you-?"

"I feel guilty too you know."

"I don't feel guilty," he lies. "And anyway, you didn't kill anyone. What do you have to feel guilty about?"

She shrugs. "Another girl would be alive if I had died. Katniss died trying to protect me. And I showed her the tracker jacker nest when you treed her, and she used it to kill the girls from 1 and 4."

Her words puncture his bubble, releasing some of his pressure, and a strand of anger (and, if he's honest with himself, embarrassment) escapes from the cord and out of the perforation . " _You_ did that?" he growls. " _You_ showed her the nest? I got fucking stung by those things."

"I know," she says. "I stole your knife too."

"My knife?"

"During training. You thought the boy from 6 stole it. But it was me."

She slips off the mantle and lands soundlessly on the carpet, and then she tosses the rope onto the easy chair.

"Do what you want I guess but twenty-two people didn't die so you could hang yourself on your Victory Tour."

And then she's gone.

 _She showed Firegirl the nest. She stole my knife. That little bitch showed Firegirl the nest. She_ _stole_ _my knife_.

He picks up the crystal pitcher of water on his nightstand and hurls it at the mirror.

The pitcher shatters.

The mirror cracks and some of the pieces fall onto the mantle.

He slides back down the wall until he reaches the floor.

 _She_ _stole my knife_.

He almost smiles.

xxxxxxxxxx

He hears her crying again that night.

So he gets out of bed and he goes down the hall and he shakes Seeder awake.

"She's crying," he says.

He goes to the dining car and pours himself a drink.

On his way back to his room, he passes hers.

Seeder repeats her actions from the night before. In exactly the same order.

The boy from 2 returns to his room.

He will do this every night until the end of their tour.

xxxxxxxxxx

"So you stole my knife," he says to her the next day after breakfast, as they wait on the platform of the train station in 11 for the car to come pick them up.

"Yep," she says blithely. "All you had to do was look up, and you would have seen me in the climbing net above you. Holding your knife. Thresh saw it. He smiled."

Another strand of anger (and, if he's honest with himself, embarrassment) escapes from the cord. But it's not directed at her for some reason.

He's confused. He doesn't understand.

He picks up a rock and hurls it at one of the rusted ties and his anger dissipates at the metallic _thunk_ that it makes when it hits.

Was he mad at Thresh?

No, he decides.

He was mad at himself.

He looks at the little girl.

A sudden breeze takes hold of her hair and her skirt, and she tilts herself up on her toes, with her arms slightly extended to her sides, as if ready to take wing at the slightest sound.

She reminds him of a bird.

xxxxxxxxxx

That night, after dinner, the Avoxes serve them bowls of warm peach crisp over cold vanilla ice cream.

Her face lights up.

Her eyes are luminous.

"This is amazing," she whispers as she puts the spoon to her lips for a second time."Mmmmmm."

He eyes her with confusion. She has worked in the orchards since her little fingers were nimble enough to pluck the fruit from the trees.

"You'd think you'd never tasted a peach before," he says with a hint of disdain.

"I haven't," she says, her words muffled by the spoon in her mouth.

"What do you mean you haven't?"

She removes the spoon. "We're not allowed to eat the peaches. Have _you_ tasted one before?"

"Yeah." He shrugs. He doesn't understand.

"Lucky," she breathes and clucks her tongue. "We're not allowed to eat the peaches," she repeats. "Or the plums. Sometimes the apples. Sometimes."

A Peacekeeper steps toward her just as Seeder clears her throat and gives the little girl a warning look.

Another strand of anger escapes from his cord. He stands up slowly from his chair, drawing himself up to his full height. He clenches his fists and he lowers his chin, like a bull about to charge, and he fixes his eyes on the Peacekeeper.

The Peacekeeper, clearly intimidated, steps back.

The boy from 2 lifts his chin and unclenches his fists and sits back down, slowly.

The little girl looks at him with wide eyes.

He picks up his spoon and scoops up some crisp and some ice cream, and he puts it in his mouth.

He closes his eyes and imagines it is the first time he's ever tasted a peach.

It tastes like heaven. It's warm and juicy and luscious and it contrasts wonderfully with the homey, comforting oats and the spicy cinnamon and the syrupy brown sugar and the richness of the butter and the smooth coldness of the ice cream.

After dinner he returns to his room and he slides down the wall until he reaches the floor. He leans his head back and he wonders if Thresh ever got the chance to taste a peach before he killed him.

A strand of self-hatred, and a strand of guilt, and a strand of sorrow escape from the cord.

He puts his face in his hands and sobs silently.

When he lifts his head several minutes later, she is perched on the mantle.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" he says, because he knows he should be angry (and, if he's honest with himself, embarrassed). "Get the fuck out." But there's no conviction in it. No teeth behind it.

She studies him sadly and the moonlight catches her cheekbone. The she turns her face to the window.

He gives up (except he never really started) on his anger. "Do you hate me because I killed him?" he asks her.

"No," she says without hesitation. "I wish he was here with me instead. I liked him better than you. He was nice to me. He told me he thought of me as a little sister. But I don't hate you. Everyone in there was just trying to go home."

And she slips off the mantle and lands soundlessly on the carpet and then she is gone.

xxxxxxxxxx

He watches her at dinner the next night. In 10.

It is not the first time she has had filet mignon or chocolate cake. She got to try them at the Training Center, before the games.

But she still marvels at the plate in front of her.

And so he imagines that it is the first time he has tried any of these things.

The meat is buttery and rich.

The baked potato is light and fluffy and he likes how the hot, mealy insides contrast with the cold sour cream. He likes the crisp, salty skin best.

The asparagus is fresh and tender.

The chocolate cake is heavy and decadent.

The wine is fragrant and dry.

"Do you wanna try a sip?" he asks her, ignoring the glares of their escorts, and hands her the glass when she nods eagerly.

He almost smiles when she scrunches her nose at the taste but he doesn't because he thinks maybe it would hurt her feelings.

xxxxxxxxxx

At the end of their tour, there are fireworks in the Capitol.

He has seen fireworks exactly twice every year since he can remember. Once on the eve of every Reaping Day and once during the annual Victory Tour stop in 2.

By now he knows that she has never seen fireworks.

He imagines it is the first time he has ever seen them.

He is surprised to find that he likes the purple ones best.

xxxxxxxxxx

They start him right away.

He has to return to the Capitol a couple of times a month.

His first client is in her forties.

She has fake breasts and fish lips and a couple minutes into it her wig goes off-center and he can't stop staring at it.

He makes it through, but he knows he never would have been able to if it hadn't been for the drugs.

xxxxxxxxxx

It is 75 ADD. He is seventeen. She is thirteen.

They arrive in the Capitol around the same time on the day of the tribute parade.

They are placed next to each other in the Victors' box to watch.

She is wearing a gossamer pink dress and a crown of white rosebuds in her hair. He almost smiles.

She sips sparkling grape juice while he drinks whiskey.

"Are you ok?" she whispers just before the parade starts.

"Why wouldn't I be?" he whispers back. He doesn't know what she's talking about.

She frowns and glances at the pack of women drooling over him in the next box over and he realizes, with horror, that she _knows_.

"I don't have to during the games. Because I'm supposed to focus on helping Brutus." He smiles, a small smile, a fake smile, and he's facing forward, but it's meant to comfort her. "Besides, I'm a teenage boy," he says, which is the truth. "I love it," he says, which is a lie.

She glances sideways and up at him and he knows she knows he's lying. "They're gonna make me do that in a few years," she says flatly.

He stiffens and his heart stops in his chest. He doesn't know what to say so he lifts his glass to his lips.

"It's ok," she says. "I've already done it."

He chokes on his whiskey.

" _You are_ _thirteen_ _."_ he bites out. " _Who the_ _fuck_ _did you do it with?"_ Probably some overeager fourteen year old boy in 11. Oh he is pissed. She is _too_ _fucking young_. He is going to get the name out of her and he is going to get on a train and he is going to go to 11 and he is going to fuck somebody's shit up. He is literally going to stick his foot up some boy's ass until it comes out of his mouth.

"There was this Peacekeeper who oversaw the part of the orchard I worked in," she says, and his blood goes cold. "He liked little girls," she continues sadly. "He noticed me for the first time when I was ten. He said he would do it to my little sisters if I told anyone. So...I've done it already. A lot."

He still wants to fuck somebody's shit up, but now he wants to vomit too. Now he wants to weep. He notices that she uses the past tense. "Where is he now?" he asks.

"He got another job in the Capitol," she says. "Or at least that's what I heard."

"Do you know his name?" he asks.

She doesn't say anything.

" _What_ " he says, his voice menacing, "is his name?"

"You can't do anything." Her lip quivers. "He'll hurt my family."

She's right and he knows it. He sighs. He doesn't push her anymore. "Besides," she says, "I'm ok."

He still wants to weep. His hand is shaking so hard that his ice is rattling in his glass and he has to set it down in the cupholder. "Why did you tell me this?" he asks.

"I don't know. I never told anybody else. But I thought maybe you...maybe you would understand." She glances back over at the pack of women. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No," he whispers back. "It's ok. And I kind of understand. At least part of it."

She slips her small hand between them and puts it in his, beneath the shared armrest of their chairs. He squeezes it and then he lets go.

A couple of hours later, Claudius and Caesar, as they replay the footage, briefly analyze the interaction that the camera has captured between the co-Victors from the 74th games. They note how they hardly speak to each other. How they don't really look at each other. How when the boy from 2 _does_ speak to the girl from 11 he grits his teeth in anger. How when he _does_ look at her he glares. They laugh about the rivalry. It's very entertaining.

But Beetee Latier sat just in front of them in the Victor's box.

Beetee Latier heard everything they said.

And as he watches the clip, Beetee Latier knows the truth.

xxxxxxxxxx

They can't stay at the Training Center. There's not room. So they stay with the other Victors who aren't mentoring that year in the annex. Their suites aren't beside each other's. He can't hear her cry from his bed. So late that first night he patters softly out the the hallway and he waits outside her door. When he hears her whimper, he goes downstairs and into the tunnel to the Training Center and he takes the elevator to the eleventh floor. He enters the apartment and he shakes Seeder awake.

"She's crying," he says.

He does this every night until they leave the Capitol.

xxxxxxxxxx

The next day he watches the footage of her reaping.

 _Pure_ the victors from the outlying districts describe her as. _Good. Innocent._

But he sees it in her eyes as he watches the footage. She is pure. She is good.

And though she is innocent in the sense that she is free from wrongdoing, he would not use that word to describe her.

She has seen too much. She has felt too much. She has been used too much.

xxxxxxxxxx

It is 76 ADD. He is eighteen. She is fourteen.

She is a couple inches taller. She is a little curvier.

They are to be seated next to one another at the tribute parade again.

As they are lining up to enter the City Circle, he notices, with disgust, that they have put her in a flowing, tissuey gold dress that shows her entire back and most of her shoulders. It is also, in his opinion, a little too low cut for her age. And she has makeup on. _Makeup._ And they've doused her in some sickeningly sweet perfume.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

He has the urge to say _You're not going anywhere in_ _that_ _young lady_. But he bites it back and he glares at her stylist.

When they are seated his nose catches the scent of champagne. He glances to his left and realizes that it's not grape juice in that flute.

" _Who_ let you have that?" he asks.

"What are you talking about?" she asks with feigned innocence.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." And he snatches the glass from her hand and downs it in one swallow. _Where is the little girl from the victory tour?_ he laments to himself.

She is so indignant she can't form words. She sputters and crosses her arms over her chest like a sullen teenage girl. Which is exactly what she is.

"And who let you wear that god awful perfume?"

"It's called Pink Sugar," she says defensively.

"Well you smell like a baby prostitute," he says.

"Funny," she says. "I've never smelled it on you."

He actually turns his head and glares at her.

"You can borrow it sometime if you want," she finishes.

He whips his head back to the front and crosses his arms over his chest.

They don't speak to one another for the rest of the evening.

Claudius and Caesar laugh about their rivalry a couple hours later. It's very entertaining.

But Beetee Latier knows the truth.

xxxxxxxxxx

Later that night he paces outside of her suite.

When he hears her whimper, he goes downstairs and into the tunnel to the Training Center and he takes the elevator to the eleventh floor. He enters the apartment and he shakes Seeder awake.

"She's crying," he says.

He does this every night until they leave the Capitol.

xxxxxxxxxx

It is 77 ADD. He is nineteen. She is fifteen.

This year he is mentoring and so he does not sit with her in the Victors' box.

But at the cocktail reception afterward he almost loses his shit when he sees her.

They've put her in a white dress with cutouts and gold lacing down the side.

He is convinced it's made out of nothing more than four dinner napkins and two gold shoelaces.

And she's in four-inch heels. And makeup. _Makeup._

She is surrounded by the teenage sons of rich Capitol bureaucrats and he can tell by the pitch of her laugh and the looseness of her movements that she's at least three flutes of champagne in.

He slides his jacket off of his shoulders and he stalks up to her. The boys immediately stop laughing and part to let him through.

The one whose hand is on the small of her back snatches it away as though her flesh is on fire and shakes with fear.

"You look cold," he says flatly and puts his jacket around her shoulders.

She still smells like a baby prostitute.

"Actually," she says, glaring at him. "I'm a little warm." And she slides the jacket off of her shoulders and tosses it back at him.

"What would Thresh think if he could see you?" he hisses.

Her face freezes and she slams her champagne flute down on the high-top behind her.

And then she tilts up on her toes with her arms slightly extended to her sides, as if ready to take wing at the slightest sound.

She reminds him of a bird.

"I wouldn't know," she slurs. "Because you killed him." And she stalks off tipsily in her four-inch heels. "Monster," she tosses over her shoulder.

He wants to weep. Instead he turns to her most ardent suitor and snatches the hand that had touched her back. He squeezes it. Almost hard enough to break it.

"You touch her ever again and I'll cut it off. Are we clear?"

"Yes-s-s-s s-s-s-sir," the boy stutters out and runs away.

He turns to find Beetee Latier eyeing him sympathetically.

"About what she said to you just now…"

"I deserved it," he says. And he walks away.

xxxxxxxxxx

Later that night he leaves his apartment and enters the tunnel into the annex and he paces outside of her suite.

When he hears her whimper, he goes back downstairs and back into the tunnel to the Training Center and he takes the elevator to the eleventh floor. He enters the apartment and he shakes Seeder awake.

"She's crying," he says.

He does this every night until they leave the Capitol.

xxxxxxxxxx

It is 78 ADD. He is twenty. She is sixteen, the same age that he was when they started him.

Seeder has passed away.

She is now the mentor for the girl from 11, who is one year older than her and has a heart-shaped face and rosy lips.

He notices the way the men look at this tribute. He overhears their comments about her.

"You kill the girl from 11 first. In the bloodbath," he tells his tribute. "Got it? Quickly."

"Yes sir," his tribute grins, thinking his mentor has a vendetta against his co-victor from 11.

He does not correct this assumption.

xxxxxxxxxx

She is breathtaking.

She has grown tall and willowy and she walks with grace and the stylists all gush about how elegantly her clothing hangs on her. She is quiet and serene and genteel.

She is wearing an ivory gown that shows just a hint of satiny brown skin stretched over delicate collarbones and flat gold sandals.

Everything else fades into the background when he looks at her.

He immediately stops thinking about her as though she is his little sister.

He suddenly feels shy.

She is the one to approach him this time. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "About last year. I know you were just trying to look out for me."

She holds out her hand. He takes it and squeezes it and then he lets go.

She is immediately descended upon by Snow and whisked off.

He watches them watch her. The Capitol men.

He lays in bed that night and thinks about chopping off one of her hands or taking out one of her eyes.

It isn't bloodlust that spawns these thoughts. It isn't sadism.

He thinks maybe if he mutilates her they'll leave her alone.

xxxxxxxxxx

Later that night he takes the elevator to the eleventh floor. He enters the apartment. He waits until he hears her whimpering and then he opens her door.

He shakes her awake and then he sits on the edge of the bed, his thumbs on her face, brushing away the tears. He hands her a glass of water and she props herself up on her elbow and drinks it down with a slurp at the end. He takes the glass and sets it on the nightstand. He tucks a curl that has gotten in the way behind her ear. She lays back down. He leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead, and then he tucks her back in and takes her hand in between both of his.

When she falls back to sleep, he lets go and leaves as silently as he came.

He does this every night until they leave the Capitol.

xxxxxxxxxx

It is 79 ADD. He is twenty-one. She is seventeen.

They have not started her yet.

Part of him is relieved.

Part of him is nervous as to why they haven't.

xxxxxxxxxx

"You kill the girl from 11 first," he says to his tribute. "In the bloodbath. Quickly."

His tribute smirks. "Yes sir."

They all think he has a vendetta against the female mentor from 11. For stealing his victory.

He doesn't correct this assumption.

xxxxxxxxxx

She is luminous. She is perfect. She shines like a diamond. When she smiles at him from across the room, he feels like a cat basking in the sun.

"Do you like my dress?" she asks as he approaches. "It took my stylist and three of her assistants one hundred and twenty hours to sew all the beads on."

She tilts up on her toes with her arms slightly extended to her sides, as if ready to take wing at the slightest sound.

She reminds him of a bird.

"Yes," he says. "It's the most beautiful dress I've ever seen."

But his eyes are on her face.

Beetee Latier notices this.

She smiles and raises her glass of champagne to her lips.

He doesn't take it from her this time.

xxxxxxxxxx

Later that night he takes the elevator to the eleventh floor. He enters the apartment. He waits until he hears her whimpering and then he opens her door.

He shakes her awake and then he sits on the edge of the bed, his thumbs on her face, brushing away the tears. He hands her a glass of water and she props herself up on her elbow and drinks it down with a slurp at the end. He takes the glass and sets it on the nightstand. He tucks a curl that has gotten in the way behind her ear. She lays back down. He leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead, and then he tucks her back in and takes her hand in between both of his.

When she falls back to sleep, he lets go and leaves as silently as he came.

He does this every night until the post-games interview.

xxxxxxxxxx

His tribute wins the games. During his interview when asked by Caesar why he bypassed three other targets to go straight for the girl from 11 in the bloodbath, the boy grins.

"In honor of my mentor," the boy says. "It was his request. As revenge against his co-Victor from the 74th games."

He drops his face into his hands.

The audience murmurs.

But Beetee Latier knows the truth.

xxxxxxxxx

She is still awake when he enters her room that night.

"Why?!" she screams. "Why?"

She shoves him up against the wall and she curls her little hands into fists and she strikes him across the face.

"I'm sorry!" he cries. "I'm so sorry!"

And he is.

But if he could go back he would not change what he has done.

When her rage is spent, he picks her up in his arms and she sobs into his neck.

He carries her to her bed and then he sits on the edge of it, his thumbs on her face, brushing away the tears. He hands her a glass of water and she props herself up on her elbow and drinks it down with a slurp at the end. He takes the glass and sets it on the nightstand. He tucks a curl that has gotten in the way behind her ear. She lays back down. He leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead, and then he tucks her back in and takes her hand in between both of his.

When she falls back to sleep, he lets go and leaves as silently as he came.

xxxxxxxxxx

It is 80 ADD. He is twenty-two. She is eighteen.

They still haven't started her.

He should be relieved, he knows.

But he is starting to grow terrified.

And then, the night before the tribute parade, he finds out why.

They announce on the news that she is engaged to the mayor of 11.

It's remarkable, they say. A true rags-to-riches story for both of them.

She, a simple orchard worker, and then a victor, and now the first lady of her district.

He is, of course, Romulus Thread, the intelligence official who uncovered Plutarch Heavensbee's plan to overthrow the President and was rewarded with the mayoralty of 11. But what most people don't know, they say, is that just a few short years before that he was a humble Peacekeeper in 11, overseeing the section of the orchard she worked in.

It's so precious, they coo. So romantic.

And now he knows the name she would not give him five years ago.

He destroys the interior of his mansion that night.

xxxxxxxxxx

"You kill the girl from 11 first," he barks at his tribute. "Do you understand? In the bloodbath."

"Of course sir," his tribute says. "I was already planning on it."

xxxxxxxxxx

She is still beautiful and graceful and elegant.

But her eyes are as dull as the dirt.

He sees her across the room at the opening cocktail reception. But he cannot approach her. He cannot speak to her.

Because it's all he can do to keep his eyes dry and his hands steady. And he knows that he will lose it if he gets any closer.

At the end of the night, after almost everyone has left, she approaches him.

"Look at me," she whispers. He can deny her nothing and so he forces himself to do as she commands, but he clenches his jaw as tight as he can and his hand shakes so violently that the liquor spills from his glass.

"I understand now," she says. "Why you tell yours to kill mine. Thank you."

Beetee Latier, who overhears her words, understands that to the young man from 2, his tributes are him and her tributes are her.

Beetee Latier also understands that the young man from 2 has failed to protect her, and so every year he makes sure that his tributes protect hers.

xxxxxxxxxx

Later that night he takes the elevator to the eleventh floor and he enters the apartment. He waits until he hears her whimpering and then he opens her door.

He shakes her awake and then he sits on the edge of the bed, his thumbs on her face, brushing away the tears. He hands her a glass of water and she props herself up on her elbow and drinks it down with a slurp at the end. He takes the glass and sets it on the nightstand. He tucks a curl that has gotten in the way behind her ear. She lays back down. He leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead, and then he tucks her back in and takes her hand in between both of his.

When he goes to leave, she opens her eyes. "Stay," she whispers. "Please."

He hesitates but he can deny her nothing.

So he slides in beside her and he takes her in his arms. She nuzzles her face into his neck and he strokes her back until she falls asleep.

He does this every night until they leave the Capitol.

xxxxxxxxxx

This year her tribute is eighteen. Tall. Strong. Gorgeous.

Her name is Gemma and she escapes his tribute at the bloodbath. She kills the girl from 2 with her bare hands. She makes it to the final four.

The Capitol men donate hundreds of thousands of dollars in sponsorship money. They lick their lips greedily. She sees them.

He notices that as her tribute advances so does her fear. He watches her choke back her sobs as she sends sponsor gifts because she has no other choice. Because it will look suspicious if she doesn't.

They both sigh with relief when his tribute finally kills hers.

xxxxxxxxxx

She's the most beautiful bride he's ever seen. Matte ivory satin. Long sleeves. Buttons down the back. Pearls in her ears. Orange blossoms in her hands.

He sits in the back row, clenching his seat so hard that his knuckles turn white. He does not look at her during the ceremony.

Beetee Latier notices this.

At the reception they do not make eye contact with one another and he leaves to shoot himself up with morphling as soon as the couple cuts the perfect white cake with its perfect white fondant.

Beetee Latier notices this too.

Everyone smirks about how pissed off he must be that he was required, like all of the rest of them, to attend his rival's wedding.

But Beetee Latier knows the truth.

xxxxxxxxxx

It is 81 ADD. He is twenty-three. She is nineteen.

He is relieved to find that her husband, due to his position as mayor, has not been able to accompany her.

But her skin does not glow. Her eyes do not shine. The bones of her face are more prominent.

Her dress is long-sleeved and high-necked, and he knows the reason why. So that no one can see the bruises. So that no one can see the welts.

xxxxxxxxxx

He does not bother to tell his tribute to kill the girl from 11 first in the bloodbath.

By now it is a well-known tradition.

xxxxxxxxxx

"I'm pregnant with his child," she says after the cocktail reception.

"Have you told him?" he asks.

"No. He'll be ecstatic when he finds out. If it's a boy he'll train him to volunteer."

"And if it's a girl?" he bites out.

"Even better for him," she whispers. "He won't have to go out to get what he wants."

"Do you want it?" he asks.

"No. But what choice do I have? I can't get an abortion. All of the doctors are loyal to him."

"Have you told anyone other than me?"

"No."

He squeezes his eyes shut. "Exhale when I make contact," he says.

She tilts up on her toes with her arms slightly extended to her sides, as if ready to take wing at the slightest sound.

She reminds him of a bird.

"I'm ready," she says.

He sobs his apology into her hair as she bleeds in the bathtub.

Then he carries her to her bed and he slides in beside her and he takes her in his arms. She nuzzles her face into his neck and he strokes her back until she falls asleep.

He does this every night until they leave the Capitol.

xxxxxxxxxx

It is 82 ADD. He is twenty-four. She is twenty.

Her skin is ashy. Her eyes are empty. Her bones poke out from beneath her dress which is, of course, high-necked and long-sleeved.

Beetee Latier notices this, and he approaches the young man from 2. "Do you know," he asks, "what her name means?"

"It's a plant," he says, the young man from 2.

Beetee Latier nods. "It is. But it's also a word that means sorrow."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Show me," she begs after the cocktail reception. "Show me that it doesn't have to hurt. Show me that it can feel good."

She doesn't have to explain what she means.

He hesitates, but he can deny her nothing.

He kneels on the ground in front of her, his face pressed to her stomach, his left arm around her waist, and he reaches up under her dress and slips the first two fingers of his right hand inside of her and circles her flesh with his thumb.

She makes no sound, but she shudders as she comes.

He carries her to bed and he slides in beside her and he takes her in his arms. She nuzzles her face into his neck and he strokes her back until she falls asleep.

xxxxxxxxxx

"You were right," she says the next night. "They won. The other twenty-two. We lost. You and I.

"I never said that."

"No. But it's what you believe."

"Yes," he says. "It is."

"Please," she says. "Please do for me what you have your tributes do for mine."

He does not hesitate because he can deny her nothing.

He starts to prepare a syringe.

"It can't look like suicide," she says. "Or they'll hurt my family."

He knows she's right.

So he puts down the syringe and he chokes back his tears.

She lays down on the bed and he kneels overtop of her.

"Don't stop. No matter what. Even if I struggle," she whispers.

He presses his lips to her forehead as he wraps his hands around her throat.

She struggles.

He sobs.

But he doesn't stop.

And afterwards, he slides down beside her and he takes her in his arms. And he presses her head into his neck and he strokes her back.

When her body begins to grow cold, he releases her and sits up on the edge of the bed. He tucks a curl that has gotten in the way behind her ear. He leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead.

He stands up from the bed and he prepares the syringe.

When everything starts to turn fuzzy and black and his fingers and toes grow cold, he knows he is dying.

And then he sees her.

She is luminous. She is perfect. She shines like a diamond.

She tilts up on her toes with her arms slightly extended to her sides, as if ready to take wing at the slightest sound.

She reminds him of a bird.

And when she smiles at him, he feels like a cat basking in the sun.

xxxxxxxxxx

 _He couldn't handle it anymore_ the analysts say as they cover the murder/suicide on the news the next morning. _He couldn't handle the shame that he felt from sharing his victory with her._

And everyone agrees that this is what happened.

That this makes complete sense.

But Beetee Latier knows the truth.


End file.
